


Alone

by Dreaming_in_Circles



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Edgar Allen Poe, Gen, Poetry, Real poets, Shakespeare Quotations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-01-03
Updated: 2014-01-03
Packaged: 2018-01-07 06:14:22
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1116472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dreaming_in_Circles/pseuds/Dreaming_in_Circles
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>From childhood's hour I have not been As others were<br/>Sherlock Holmes is anything but normal. His parents always believed that he was destined for greatness. A look at Sherlock's life through a poem.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Alone

**Author's Note:**

> As always, un-Bata'd and not Brit-picked. All mistakes are my own. If you see anything, please point it out in the comments.

From childhood's hour I have not been  
As others were;

Sherlock's eyes travelled over the other children in the lobby of the school. They were all dressed neatly in small versions of the school uniform, just as he was, clothes generally clean and fairly unwrinkled. Many were suntanned from playing outside over the warm and exceptionally dry summer, and were laughing and talking. Making fiends quickly and dividing into their little groups as parents watched from nearby.  
Sherlock was the only one who still stood next to his mother, watching the children warily, but not joining them. His uniform was crumpled, much to his mother's distaste, and his skin was pale: he'd spent little time outside that summer.

I have not seen  
As others saw;

But the children quickly lost his interest, all sharing the same story. The parents, however... One was having an affair, two's marriages were failing and they didn't want their kids to know, one was an alcoholic and two more were getting there, one had just lost her job, one was a closet gay, and one was a soldier trying very much not to look as uncomfortable as he was in the crowd.

I could not bring  
My passions from a common spring.

"Sherlock, you have to do your homework." "Sherlock, you have to get good grades." "Sherlock you cannot say those things to the teachers, even if you think they're true. Which they're not, how can you possibly be right?" "Sherlock, stop bringing dead animals back to the house. That's disgusting!" "Sherlock, no playing with the cleaning chemicals, we've talked about this before. Now come here, you need to be punished."

From the same source I have not taken  
My sorrow;

"Sherlock, the poor boy's just died of a seizure and all you have to say is where are his shoes? Really? Who cared about his shoes; can you feel nothing about the fact a child your age has just died?" "Sherlock, you're 'experiments' really don't matter, you do realize? There's really no point, so therefore what does it matter that I threw it out?"

I could not awaken  
My heart to the joy at the same tone;

"Come now, Sherlock, aren't you glad to see all your family?"  
"Not really, Mother. I'd rather finish my work than spend time with them."  
"Sherlock, this is your sixteenth birthday party and you need to come out here and be a good host!"  
"You invited them, against my will, that would make you the host. You entertain them."  
"Sherlock Holmes how dare you speak to me that way! When this party is over, you will have to be punished."

And all I loved, I loved alone.

"-and I have no clue. Will you come look at the files?" Lestrade finished with a huff, running a hand through his dark hair.  
A smile curved on Sherlock's lips, safely hidden from Lestrade as his back was turned. He loved this, loved solving the crimes. Lestrade didn't understand how exciting it was. How stimulating. It actually allowed him to use his intellect, and oh what a feeling that was.  
"I'll be along shortly, no need to wait for me." Sherlock turned slightly, only enough to look see his skull sitting on a nearby table. "Thou know'st 'tis common; all that lives must die, Passing through nature to eternity..." He whispered to himself, his smile growing wicked. "But it's these deaths that make life fun!"

Then- in my childhood, in the dawn  
Of a most stormy life- was drawn  
From every depth of good and ill  
The mystery which binds me still:  
From the torrent, or the fountain,  
From the red cliff of the mountain,  
From the sun that round me rolled  
In its autumn tint of gold,  
From the lightning in the sky  
As it passed me flying by,  
From the thunder and the storm,  
And the cloud that took the form  
When the rest of Heaven was blue  
Of a demon in my view.

Labor lasted twelve hours, through a fierce lightening storm and into a bright, cheery morning. The nurse said it was a good sign, for a baby to be born on such a bright morning. The sun was out in full strength, and the rain from the night before made everything luscious green. They were in a hospital on the coast, and looking out the hospital room window was a steep cliff and then the raging ocean. The sky was clear blue, not a cloud to be seen. It was beautiful.  
The baby was long, but skinny, not weighing very much. His skin was pale and creamy as milk and he had a thin spattering of black hair on his head. He was beautiful, and practically glowed when the sun hit him. The nurse said God must be smiling on them to have such a beautiful baby; that they must be truly blessed.  
The baby's name was Sherlock Holmes, and his parents believed he'd be destined for great things.  
“Mycroft, come look at your baby brother. He’s going to be truly great someday. Truly exceptional. Just perfect.”

 

Sherlock considered a lot of information useless and a waste of precious space in his mind palace. Who cared of the Earth went around the sun? And knowing that hadn't helped him at all when it came to the picture. No. He needed a deeper understanding of the solar system - that's what he was saving space for. Who cared about the sun as long as it kept shining?  
Philosophy, politics, literature; they all fell into the same category. Philosophy was theoretical, mundane, and pointless. Politics was the petty game of little people, completely boring. He honestly had no clue why his brother insisted on caring so very much about all those little people. Literature was simply a waste of time and space; he had better things to fill his mind with than the musing of dead people.  
But...  
There was one room in his mind palace. One place he went only on a few occasions. This room was special, an anomaly. There was only one author Sherlock bothered to remember, someone who had stuck with him all his life. Maybe it was that this man's dark musings matched his own often-sour attitude so well. Maybe it was that he often wrote about death, a topic Sherlock found endlessly fascinating. Maybe it was the author's own mysterious disappearance and subsequent death that kept Sherlock coming back for more. Maybe it was that out of all the people in the world, living or dead, Sherlock felt the only person who might have been able to understand him was Edgar Allan Poe.

**Author's Note:**

> The poem is Alone by Edgar Allen Poe. I have always been a fan of Poe and when I read this all I could think what that it practically screamed Sherlock. God, I feel so bad for him now.  
> The quote that Sherlock says to the skull is from Hamlet by William Shakespeare.


End file.
